


The Special Dish

by Allegria23



Series: second time around [5]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Fuck Canon this follows the Fix-it of Your Choice, Being so In Love, Canon-atypical happiness, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Found Family, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Near Future, Not particularly explicit sex, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 04, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-01-31 17:51:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21450292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allegria23/pseuds/Allegria23
Summary: Eliot has plans for something that's maybe atinybit overdue.
Relationships: Eliot Waugh & Julia Wicker, Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater & Julia Wicker, Quentin Coldwater & Margo Hanson, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: second time around [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1360060
Comments: 87
Kudos: 163





	1. Eliot

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set about a year and four months after Eliot's return. In the _second time around_ series, it takes place eight months after the events of Chapter 2 of _your body (your heart) in his hands._ It can be read as a stand-alone work, however, and for those encountering it as such, the fellas have been together for over a year, and are living with Julia, still in the penthouse. How exactly the heartbreaking clusterfuck of canon was resolved is left open here, so feel free to assume the fix-it of your choice is what went down. For now, we are moving forward.

“Bambi, please, it’s like a cross between thyme and summer savory, with a little bit of a minty smell. It’s called ‘Robin-run-up-the-hedge,’ or at least it used to be. It’s a common garden herb, and I _ need _it. I know it’s in season. Please, help me here.” 

Eliot knows he sounds melodramatic, leaning close to the bedroom mirror as he tries to get Margo to agree before the spell runs out and their connection between Earth and Fillory fades. 

Margo fixes Eliot with an incredulous look. “Eliot, I am a king of a medieval fucking fantasy land, and I have shit to do. What makes you think I have time to hunt down goddamn _ herbs?” _Something desperate must show in his face, though, because she softens slightly and looks at him more closely. “Wait a minute. El, what do you really need this for? What’s going on?” 

“Hang on,” he whispers, “let me make sure Q’s still out.” He crosses quickly to the bedroom door and peeks out, scanning the apartment. Good. Quentin’s still at his being-friends lunch with Alice. He closes the door and runs back to the mirror. He clears his throat -- he’s nervous, he realizes. It will be, well, mildly devastating if Margo doesn’t approve. Of course she will, but still.

“Okay,” he says, “Listen. There’s a dish that I used to make for Q, for special occasions. I want to make this for him here, but I need some ingredients from Fillory. Margo, it was his favorite, and,” he swallows, “I’m getting ready to propose.”

Margo’s eyes go wide and she actually _ jumps. _“Shut the fuck up!”

“Margo, shhhhhh!” Eliot waves his hands. “He could be home any minute!”

“Shut the fuck up!” She whispers, very loudly. Her eyes look like they might escape her head. “You’re finally going to make an honest man of Coldwater? Eliot! This is HUGE.”

“I know. I know. So you’ll help?” 

“Of course I’ll fucking help. Do you want me to send someone for the cook?”

“I don’t think we have time, but I do have a list. Can you write this down?” Margo disappears for a moment and returns with paper and pen. “Okay. I need some yeast from the village of Biberey—it’s like a sourdough starter, the bakery should have some—and about four pounds of flour—red winter wheat, finely ground—and there are these little orange summer squashes…”

Margo is taking notes on the top of her own vanity, her shoulders hunched above her magnificent, royal (emerald green, this time) gown-of-the-day, but then she stops and looks up at Eliot through the mirror.

“El,” she says, with an air of calm nonchalance, “when exactly did you make this dish for Quentin, ‘for special occasions?’”

Eliot is feeling a bit frantic. “Well, it’s a summer dish, so sometimes for his birthday, or our anniversary, or if something special happened. It’s mostly summer vegetables, but we had to be able to get the butter, too, and the cheese, and the bread that goes with it is important. It got hard to slice the vegetables really thin, in my seventies, but Quentin would help, he’s always had stronger hands even though I was afraid he would cut himself…”

Margo clears her throat to interrupt Eliot’s rambling. She looks at him and deadpans: “While you were at the mosaic. For a whole goddamned lifetime. And the last time you made this for him you were an old-ass man.”

“Yes.”

Margo blows out a long, slow breath. For once, she seems to be taking a minute to choose her words. “I thought those memories were all fuzzy-wuzzy?” she asks, “You know, given that it was _ not actually you two _ that lived them? _ How _ are you asking me for fucking artisan yeast from a specific village and whimsically-named garden herbs?”

“Okay, one, it’s not ‘artisan;’ that implies it’s pretentious. This is the opposite of that, it’s the common village yeast from a specific region. And two…”

_ “Eliot.”_

“Ok, all right.” Eliot sighs. He never can get around answering her when she’s set on it. “Bambi, look. All of those memories are real. The letter Q sent you after I died and the key… I can’t explain how we lived and _ died _ there and also _ didn’t_, but sometimes the memories get _ very not-fuzzy-wuzzy.” _

Eliot wraps a hand around his forehead and closes his eyes. He needs Margo to get it, or at least begin to. “Um so, with this… I’ve been cooking for Q a lot lately, and I _ remember this, _ specifically. I think he’ll remember it too. I _ hope _ he will.” 

Margo is blinking at him, listening, serious. He swallows again and continues, feeling suddenly, wildly, like he’s asking for her blessing. 

“Um… Quentin was happy there, with me._ I _ was happy, with him. We had… Bambi, it was a _ beautiful _ life.” He closes his eyes and swallows. He’d explained this to her before, and how he’d almost ruined everything. She had understood him, had treated him as if there was nothing to forgive. (And Quentin, beautiful Quentin, had forgiven him.) Eliot holds on to the front of the bureau as he speaks to Margo. He needs her to understand him, again. 

“So, when Quentin and I first got to the mosaic, we were a little younger, and the issues we had were totally less traumatic than the shit we’ve been through in the past two years, and it _ still _ took us _ years _ to really get our shit together. There was _ mutual pining, _Bambi, it was so stupid.” 

Margo looks at him like she has no trouble at all believing that. 

He continues. “And it was all under a very specific set of circumstances that we built what we had, I know. Our life is different now. We’re different. But the point is that we _ did_. We had _ decades _ of actually being together, and _ in love_, and _ happy_. So, I just… I want to do something that will tell Quentin that I remember that, and that it’s important to me, when…” Eliot swallows around the lump in his throat, “when I ask him to do it again.”

Eliot looks up at Margo in the mirror. Her eyes look a little glossy as she stares him down. “Eliot, you asshole,” she says, “that is the goddamned most romantic shit I have ever heard. I’m gonna kill you because I can’t hug you right now.” The tension breaks, and Eliot can’t help but beam at her. “Let’s make this whatever-it-is so you can get a ring on that boy’s finger.”

Eliot is elated. He’s relieved. Has he really been worried? “All right,” he says, “there are just a few more things on the list.”


	2. Julia

Julia smirks to herself over her latte as she stands under the awning at the Union Square farmers’ market and watches Eliot flitting around, charming the stall owners into letting him taste, as he puts it, “every variety of heirloom and specialty tomato known to man.” He looms over the tables and has to stoop inside some of the shaded stalls, but his seriousness and enthusiasm seem inexhaustible. He is, he’s explained, looking for the right flavor and texture, and needs at least two varieties that approximate the tomatoes that he remembers growing in Fillory a hundred years ago. 

Sounds like a tall order, if you ask her, but Eliot seems pretty optimistic. He’s already found a type of small eggplant that he likes, and made a lewd joke to her about their size and shape while leaving the stand with several in a large, colorful woven basket so he can experiment with cooking with them at home. He also has a couple types of summer squash, as well as some flat, broad green beans, kale, beets, and cherries, “to throw Quentin off the trail.” 

“Julia!” He waves her over. “Come try these!” She steps under the canopy, nodding a greeting to the green-aproned market man standing behind the card tables laden with colorful fruit. The man has short, light hair and an elaborately twirled mustache, and he smiles at Julia. Eliot holds his palm out, with a pink tomato slice on it, and one that’s red-striped-with-green. She takes the pink one and tastes it—it’s fantastic, she’s never tasted such… tomatoeness. It’s sweet and bright and tangy and also surprisingly dense. 

“Wow, Eliot, that’s good,” she says. “Is this what you’re looking for? Um, let’s get some anyway.”

“Um-hmm.” He smiles. “Here, now try this one.” The red/green one tastes like concentrated sunshine, and also makes her tongue feel a little funny.

“That’s intense! Can I try the little yellow one?” That one, it turns out, is mild and very sweet and juicy. Eliot beams and buys several of each and a pint of the tiny ones. 

“Can you promise me you’ll have these next Friday?” he asks the man. “I can pay for some in advance if you think you might run out? I’m planning something special and need to make sure.”

“Why don’t you leave me your name and what you’d like, and I’ll make sure we set them aside for you? Friday morning, then?”

Julia takes the produce as they work out the details and steps around the side of the stall. Checking around her, she sticks her hands in the basket and casts a temporary density-diminishing spell. All of this has been getting heavy. When Eliot reclaims the basket he gives her a warm smile upon discovering the charm. “Excellent! Now, I understand there’s a stall here from a farm that keeps sheep; let’s find them so we can talk about butter and cheese.” Draping the basket over one arm, he offers the other to Julia, and off they go in search of the sheep-dairy table.

“You know,” she muses, as they wind their way between vendors, “you’ve become sort of the most domestic person I know. I never would have predicted that.”

“Neither would I, to be honest,” Eliot replies, slowing down, “but I had a bit of time to reflect on my priorities.” He says it lightly, but she knows he’s telling the truth. Pre-monster Eliot, she has noticed, had been very concerned with how he appeared, but post-monster Eliot seemed much more focused on what he _ did. _ “I also keep remembering-slash-discovering things that make me happy. But there _ is, _you could say, a common theme.”

Julia looks up at Eliot with a knowing smile. “Q?” she asks. 

“Yes._ Q,” _ he confirms. “I mean, I don’t _ only _ enjoy the quaint, cozy queer domestic life because I like taking care of him, although I _ do, _ but it’s also that I learned to love it all _ with _ him, you know? There’s a certain _ joi de vivre _to it all, because of him.”

Julia smirks. “Uh huh. I’ve accidentally walked in on you two and your ‘_joi de vivre’ _ a couple of times, remember?” She elbows him for good measure, and Eliot has the grace to look embarrassed.

“There are other things that I can’t replicate now or that wouldn’t make sense,” he muses as they meander through the stalls. “I have these… memories of irrelevant skills. There are also places that I think of, routines we had… it’s odd, having nostalgia for a different life. Sometimes I actually _ miss _ working on the mosaic. But… there are also new things that are only in this life, that I’m loving about being with Q. The way he’s using his magic, now, for one thing. And I love being with him in New York. It’s all so _ good. _ I _ love _ him, and I just…” 

Eliot has stopped walking and looking around. He turns to face her, looking reverent and serious. “Julia,” he says, in a more private voice, “Quentin is the love of my life. I want you to know that I’m completely devoted to him. Whatever else I might do in my life… it doesn’t matter. If he’ll have me, I’m his.” 

Eliot is looking at her, his warm hazel eyes soft and questioning. Julia knows he means it. She’s come to know Eliot well over the past year-plus of living with them, at least well enough to consider him a friend and to know how unreservedly he loves Quentin. 

“I’d like to propose a pact,” she says, and watches Eliot’s eyebrows go up. “You take care of him, be his person, be his _ husband, _ but let me help, okay? Keep me in the loop, especially when he gets depressed. We’re kind of all he’s got, and I want to be a part of making sure he’s okay. Long term.”

_"Long __term _ long term?” Eliot seems surprised.

“Yes,” she confirms, and _whew_, this is hard to admit. “I should have known, while you were gone, that he was spiraling. I just… I didn’t even _notice. _I was preoccupied. It didn’t look like his depression in college looked, so I think I just… ignored how badly he was doing.” Julia twists her fingers in front of her. She makes herself look up. “Eliot, we both know I haven’t always been a great friend to Q, but I’m never going to be done trying. He’s like my brother, and I love him too.” She stands her ground and tries not to show her nerves. What if, after everything, Eliot doesn’t _want_ her in their lives on an ongoing basis? What if they get married and just… disappear? 

Eliot gets a funny, far-away look in his eyes, then does something Julia never would have imagined. He smiles and holds up his little finger. “Team Quentin?” he asks.

Julia laughs with relief as she shakes pinkies with him. “Team Quentin,” she agrees. He puts his free arm around her shoulders as they began walking again. “Come on,” she says, relieved, “let’s go buy your butter and cheese.”

“I hope they’re up to snuff,” Eliot replies. “I also need to look for a baking dish on the way home.”

“That’s fine,” Julia puts her arm around his waist as they walk. “I want to buy the wine for you. I’ve been doing some research and I think maybe a Rioja, but we should go taste some, if we can. And I found a florist you’re going to love.” 

“Thank you.” Eliot leans over and kisses the top of her head as they head toward the far end of the market.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First day, two short chapters! This story will be rolling out over the course of the next week and a half, probably with a short haitus from Thursday through Saturday, because I'll have out-of-town guests. We're looking at about 20k in total, and it's about 97% finished. Tomorrow: Margo!
> 
> Briefly, allow me to thank Adjovi and Ilexa, who have beta-read, edited, and cheered this on for months, and Lundraindrop and Rizandace, for your lovely reassurance when I needed it. Thank you.
> 
> This is my first time publishing a fic in chapters over time, and I hope you'll all enjoy the romantic journey.


	3. Margo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A word of warning: this chapter will deal with some big feelings. They're not relationship-conflict feelings, or even personal guilt-- more like delayed grief and general overwhelm-- but it is a little intense in the middle for a bit. Then it gets better, I promise.

Margo steps through the Fillory Clock and into the penthouse study early the following Thursday. The amount of shit that she’s carrying for this visit is ludicrous, but what’s she gonna do? It’s _ El, _ after all, and if he wants to marry Quentin then he can bet his tits his best friend is going to come through for him. 

She barely has time to set down her bags before Eliot pulls her into a hard hug. 

“Bambi,” he breathes, cupping her head under his chin. Dramatic bitch, always trying to make her cry. She loves him. It’s been too long. 

When she finally pulls away from Eliot, Margo spots Quentin. He looks so much _ better, _ with his hair grown back out to a bisexual-bob and that dimply baby smile on his face.

“Come here,” Margo says, holding out her arms, and Quentin rushes in and actually _ spins her around. _ She barks out a laugh, delighted. That is _ not _ an experience that she normally has, as High King.

“Coldwater,” she says, “you’re stronger than you look.”

“I missed you, Margo,” says Quentin, still hugging. 

Margo reaches up for his head and pulls it down to her shoulder. “I missed you too, honey.” 

“Now,” she announces, finally letting go of her boys, “where’s Julia? I have a gift for her from those giant forest-nymph studs, and it’s awkward as fuck to carry.”

Turns out Julia is in the living room, and Margo has to give her some credit, giving them all a minute for their mushy shit. 

“Hey, Our Lady of the Trees!” she calls out. “The hung-like-oaks dryad dudes of the Darkling Wood send their worshipful regards.” Julia ducks her head with an embarrassed smile while Margo sets down her Bag of Holding disguised as a basic brown satchel. She reaches in like Mary-fucking-Poppins, smirking as she pulls out a gracefully-twining tree branch about three feet long, covered in delicate red and orange flowers. “It’s an ever-blooming branch,” she explains, handing it to Julia, who examines it with awe. “Keep it in water. The flowers change with the seasons, and I think it might predict the weather.” 

Julia’s smile takes on a wry twist as she pulls Margo into a light hug. “Thanks, your majesty,” she says, half-joking, and Margo gives her a tighter squeeze. 

“We’ll talk about them later,” Margo whispers, and Julia nods like the sharp bitch she is. 

Turning to Quentin, she softens and pulls a small package wrapped in delicate golden paper from her bag. “Happy belated birthday, Q.” 

Quentin’s face does a complicated little dance of mixed feelings. _ God, _ this boy and his face-journeys. 

“Look,” she says gently, putting her hands on his shoulders, “I know you don’t like anyone making a big deal, although hopefully _ Eliot _ made it memorable,” Quentin blushes, so she’s clearly right on _ that _ count, “but you’re just going to have to put up with a certain amount of the people who love you being happy that you’re getting older every year.”

“I… Margo…” Quentin stammers, obviously touched, and now there’s more hugging happening. Her work here is nearly done. 

“All right, all right,” she says, pushing him back, “it’s not that big a deal. Fillorian children’s stories, old ones. It was either that or a monarchical history translated from the work of the scholarly mummering pufferfish, but I decided you’ll have to come visit me at the castle to get that one.”

“I will,” he says, “pretty soon.” He looks at her with those big puppy dog eyes. “Thank you, it’s perfect.” She leans up and kisses him on the cheek. 

Returning to her bag, Margo lifts a small, bushy potted plant, almost like an afterthought. She hands it to Eliot nonchalantly. “For your herb garden, darling. It probably wants to be out on the patio with the others?”

“Ah, how lovely,” he says casually, kissing her forehead. “Thank you. I’ll be right back.” 

As Eliot walks away with his nose buried in his super-fucking-special common Fillorian garden herb, Margo turns her attention back to Quentin, to make sure he’s distracted. He is. He’s leafing through the old, leather-bound volume she’s brought for him, and it looks like there are tears in his eyes. She puts an arm around him. “Okay there, hon?”

“Yeah,” he says, with a soft chuckle, “I. Um… yeah.” She pulls him into her side. 

***

It’s much later, well after dinner, when Margo finally gets some real time alone with Eliot. Quentin understands that they need to catch up, and has sweetly wished them good night and gone to bed with his book. Julia excuses herself, as well, and it’s finally just them. Eliot fixes them cocktails for old times’ sake, Bishops, strong with Burgundy and rum.

As they settle on the sofa together, Margo presents Eliot with a sack full of orange summer squash, a block of nutty sheeps’ milk cheese, a full-ass sack of flour, and a pouch of salt from the Fillorian sea. Eliot grins from ear to ear. Then she hauls out a cloth-covered earthenware jar full of pasty Village-of-Biberey yeast. Eliot takes the lid off the jar and smells it, and his mouth falls open as his eyes begin to brim. 

“Bambi,” he says, actually goddamn hugging the yeast jar, “this is _ perfect_. Thank you.”

Margo preens a little. “Oh it was nothing.” She takes a few beats. “But that baker is never gonna forget the day the High King and her royal guard barged into her bakery and requisitioned a jar of her yeast ‘for the good of two kingdoms.’” 

Eliot guffaws, “Bambi! You didn’t!” Margo allows herself to share his glee as he laughs.

“El, if I couldn’t do shit like that, what would be the point?”

“I can’t believe you went yourself. Tell me you at least paid the baker?”

“Of course I did!” She slaps him lightly on the leg. “I’m not a monster!” Margo takes a sip of her drink and grins evilly at Eliot over the rim of the glass. “Well, Fen did. _ She’s _ not a monster.”

Eliot is cracking the fuck up. “You took Fen! I wish I could have seen it.”

“She was a treasure, and I thought we could use a little trip,” Margo waits as Eliot regains his composure. “She helped me track everything down. She sends her love, by the way, and her blessing.”

“Thank you. I hope that magical divorce has been good for her?” Eliot takes a sip of his cocktail, looking stupidly guilty about that. 

“Of _ course _ it has. She loves you, El, but trust me, she’s at least as happy about it as you are. Besides,” Margo affects a nonchalant little smile that she knows Eliot will see right through, and says lightly, “I’m taking care of her.”

Eliot’s eyes go wide, and he smiles broadly at Margo while she flashes him an impish grin. “Oh my god, Bambi. Wow. Are you, um, happy with that, then?”

He’s sweet to ask. “Don’t you worry about me. Mama is very happy.”

Eliot sighs as they lean back on the couch, shoulder to shoulder, and sip their drinks. “All these years… true love… and still no one will call me Daddy... yet you’ve been Mama all along.”

“Of course I have. We both know I’ve always been the one with the real Big Dick Energy.”

“Too true.” he replies, clinking his glass to hers.

They sit for a little while, resting in the warmth of each other’s company and their own thoughts. Margo loves Eliot for so many reasons. She’s preparing herself for what’s coming next.

“El,” she finally says, “there’s something else.” He turns to look at her, caught by her hesitant tone. “I went to your mosaic. Just me, not… everyone. Don’t worry about that.”

The look on Eliot’s face mingles fear and hope. “What did you find?” he asks, quietly.

“Quite a bit… ” Margo says, reaching for her bag. She’s not normally a nervous person—she’s really fucking not—but this is a lot, even for her. “But I… I brought you this.” She uses both hands to lift the object, carefully wrapped in white soft cloth, and hand it to Eliot.

Eliot sits up further on the couch, cradling the bundle on his lap. He looks down cautiously and begins to unwrap it, his hands trembling slightly. As the cloth falls away, a shallow stoneware dish is revealed. It’s a rich, almost violet brown, only about two inches deep, an oval shape with a flat bottom, clearly handmade. The inside is smooth; a slight lip around the top widens at the ends, and the outer surface has a texture of soft spirals and swirls. Margo had found it in a low cupboard in the tiny cottage, and her intuition told her it was right. 

Eliot is silent. He holds the dish gently on his lap, looking at it with unfocused eyes. After a couple of minutes, Margo reaches out to cup his cheek. “El?” she asks.

He slowly lifts his eyes to her, and she feels a pang of compassion for the intensity she sees there. “I…” Eliot begins, “I _ made _ this.” 

_ Motherfucker, _ Margo thinks, _ I knew it._

“Quentin mended it. I made them. They would wear out, from the heat. Oh my god. _ Bambi.”_

Margo reaches out and puts her arms around Eliot. He’s beginning to shake. “Just breathe, baby,” she says. Eliot tries, taking a few slower breaths, but his hands are shaking, fingers delicately cradling the pottery on his legs. “Here,” she says, “Let me.” She gently lifts the dish, the cloth beneath it, and sets it on the coffee table, beside everything else. Sitting back, she wraps Eliot in her arms, holding his head with her hand.

“It was all… I thought I knew, but… ” Eliot begins. “In this timeline, it’s all still there? I don’t know how…”

“Well,” Margo wants to put his mind at ease—not an easy prospect with time magic, but still—“obviously, you were split. Somehow, either coming or going… there were two of you and Quentin. In the same timeline, but at different times.” She waits a moment to let him catch up, then catches his eyes again. 

“Eliot, I saw your graves.”

“You saw… you’re sure?”

“Yes.” She nods, looking gently in his overwhelmed eyes. “They’re right there, beside the house and the mosaic. There’s a headstone, El. It says, ‘Quentin and Eliot Coldwater-Waugh, _ beloved fathers and grandfathers.’”_

“Oh…” Eliot utters the word, quietly, and then he just _ collapses, _as if the weight of his emotions is crushing him, pushing him down off of the couch and onto the carpet in front of them. Margo gets down on her knees and leans over him, wrapping him in her arms and her body, and holds him while he shakes. Eventually, the shaking turns to quiet sobs, and she lifts Eliot’s shoulders and arranges him against her shoulder, holding him in her arms. 

She holds him for a long time, her dearest friend. _ Soulmate, _ she muses. If she hadn’t succeeded in getting to them in time, to stop them from going through that clock, Eliot wouldn’t be here. He’d still be dead; the only Eliot would be the one in that Fillorian grave. The thought fills her with gratitude, but also with fear. How fucking fleeting and insubstantial is life, especially in the face of magic? She has nearly lost the most important person in her life, several times over. Has grieved him, or refused to grieve him, more than once. And Quentin too… _ fuck. _ Margo realizes, holding Eliot while he’s overcome, that making sure they were happy and _ alive _is… well, it’s a very fucking high priority, isn’t it?

Eliot eventually settles and sits up, and Margo reaches up to wipe his cheek. “How’re you doing, sweetie?” she asks, as she blinks tears from her own eyes. She smiles at him. “Bitch, you’d better not tell anyone I’m this soft.” 

He smiles back at her. “I would never,” he says, and kisses her on the forehead. 

After a minute, Eliot reaches out and takes Margo’s hand. “Thank you for finding out for us,” he says, quietly. “It’s going to be… a lot to process. That it was real, physically, in our timeline… it was us. Our bodies are there, the things from our lives… and we’re also us, but, I guess, new us?” He looks at her, like he’s pleading for something. Margo has no idea what it is. 

“ Bambi…”

“Eliot, what is it?”

“I wasn’t there, when Quentin died. I went first. _ That me _ never mourned _ that him_. I just… oh god.” Eliot raises his hand to his eyes and folds in on himself, crumpling over Margo. She gives him a minute, then grabs his chin and lifts it to look him in the eye. 

“Eliot,” she begins, “look, none of that was your fault, baby. It wasn’t even _ this you _ and _ this him_. And it was a long time ago, in a fucking far-away land. What you need to pay attention to is not mourning past-life-Eliot’s husband from way back when; it’s proposing to your hot little boyfriend who’s sitting in the other room _ right now_. You got that?”

She holds his chin and stares him down until he nods and smiles sadly, the tension broken. Eliot lets out a breath and wraps Margo in his long arms. He kisses the top of her head. “Thank you,” he whispers.

“_Were_ you two married?” she asks eventually. “Your past selves?”

Eliot takes a moment. “Yes,” he begins, “I mean, not legally. Our marriage isn’t recorded in a ledger anywhere. Rural Fillory wasn’t super into gay marriage in, like, the nineteen-aughts.”

Margo huffs a soft laugh as Eliot sits back against the sofa, relaxing again with his legs out beneath the coffee table and telekinetically retrieving the open bottle of wine from the bar cart. 

“We also really didn’t want to risk attracting Ember and Umber’s attention by approaching a priest,” he explains. “They might have like, killed us back, retroactively, or something.”

“Good call,” says Margo, watching Eliot pour some wine into his highball glass and shoot her a ‘want some?’ look. She nods, and he pours some for her as well. 

“But we did have a small handfasting when our son Teddy was ten, in the orchard,” he continues. “We called ourselves husbands, and the older we got, the more right that felt.”

Margo takes a drink of her wine. Eliot isn’t the only one being haunted by the ghost of a former self: she can practically feel five-years-ago Margo reach up and slap her for engaging in all this fucking feelings talk. She mentally flips off younger Margo, congratulates herself on her maturity, and asks Eliot anyway: “How does it feel now?”

“Now I feel like an idiot who is incredibly lucky,” Eliot replies, staring out the window across the room from them at the weird cool glow of the reflected city lights, “and I also feel very desperately in love.”

“I’m happy for you, El,” Margo admits. “You’re ok now?” She gestures to the dish on the table in front of them, meaning _ with all this._

“Yes.” He lifts his hands and runs his fingers backward through his hair, takes a deep breath and lets it out toward the ceiling, as if he still smoked. “Honestly, though, I’m a little overwhelmed because it means our son was real in this timeline, and our grandkids. I’m _ thrilled _ by that, you have no idea, but it also means that Quentin and I probably have _ descendants. _ We have to figure out how to… how to _ handle _ that.” He takes a deep drink of his wine.

“Fuuuuck,” says Margo, sitting up. “I don’t think you two are ready for that, do you? Don’t tell me you think you and Quentin could handle being Fillorian umpty-great grandparents or whatever the fuck right now.”

“Well, no,” Eliot says, laughing and shaking his head sadly. “Probably neither of us could. Q hasn’t been ready to go back at all, yet—although I think he’s nearly there. We’ll have to take it very slow. We’ll have records to look up,” he swallows, and continues more quietly, “and a… a lot of graves to visit. Are the mosaic and the cottage protected?”

“Yeah,” she replies, “they are. They were when I got there, and they’re even more protected now. It’s all yours, for whatever you need from it, okay?”

“Thank you,” he says and pulls her into a hug. “I need to tell Quentin, as soon as I can. It may throw things off, though. Depending on how it hits him, we might have to wait on the proposal.”

_ Well damn_. Margo isn’t happy about that, not after everything they’ve put into planning it. She also really just wants to see Eliot married to his boy. For Eliot’s sake, she tries not to show too much disappointment at the possibility. “I hope not,” she says. “You’ve waited a long time.”

“I know,” he murmurs, holding on to her. “I know, but it’s okay. We’ve got plenty of time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is as heavy as it gets, honest! Tomorrow: Quentin.


	4. Quentin

Quentin is reading before Eliot comes in, or sort of reading. It’s around eleven o’clock, quiet for the city, and inky-dark outside. He’s slipped way down in their bed, his chin propped forward by his pillow toward the book on his chest, his gaze unfocused but resting on the page. He’s experiencing one of those “in the wrong body, at the wrong time” sensations, feeling almost impossibly old, and sad in an otherworldly way. It’s like the memories of his other life that normally reside deep in his chest and his present—his young, healing, blessedly lucky-of-late life—have changed places for a while. He feels his youth and his uncertainty and his hope and his relief as if they’re tethers to the present, but only touching him lightly. 

Quentin had known a lot of these stories, once. Impossibly long ago, in the time that was his but not-his, he and Arielle and Eliot had read some of them to Teddy, their son who was… no, he’s _ still _ their son. Somehow. Quentin can feel it in his soul, even if his mind can’t explain it in a satisfactory way. He and El had later read these same stories to three grandchildren, one of whom had married and had two babies before Eliot died and the mosaic was solved. Quentin likes to think of their memories of that other life as a gift, when he can, but right now they’re a gift wrapped up in nostalgia and loss. 

Eliot comes in quietly and peers at Quentin around the book to see if he’s awake. When Quentin looks up at him, trying to silently communicate what he's going through, he finds a knowing look on Eliot’s face. 

“Familiar stories?” Eliot asks.

“Yes,” Quentin's voice is quiet as he sets the book down. “Treacherous fairies, kindly talking foxes, you know. Everyday stuff.”

Eliot sighs a soft laugh and looks lovingly at Quentin. “Are you doing okay, sweetheart?”

“Well,” Quentin considers it, aiming for honesty, “yes? This has kind of… pulled me back, you know? I need to bring myself back to the present, but it’s not terrible. The memories just keep… um…” he’s searching for the right word. “They keep unpacking. That’s not quite the right word.” He scoots back in the bed and sits up, looking at Eliot and hoping he understands.

“Mine do, too.” Eliot perches on the bed and takes both of his hands. “I need to talk to you about something, on this subject, actually.” 

“Okay, just,” Quentin begins. He focuses on Eliot, how young he looks. He hadn’t seen El at twenty-nine in his lovely Earth clothes, with his hair like it is now, in that other life; he tries to let the sight of him ground him in the present. Quentin leans over and kisses him softly. “Show me some magic?” he asks, “Something new?” 

Eliot sits more fully on the bed and smiles, then lifts his beautiful hands in front of him. His hands are soft, not rough and calloused. No chalk. They’re nimble, graceful, now fully healed after the Monster’s mistreatment of his body. Eliot begins to move his fingers in a series of careful, intricate tuts, whispering in Gaelic. To Quentin, they look like they’re dancing. His fingers spread apart, then he lifts his arms above his head. As he brings them downward, a golden half-dome of translucent, hexagonal tiles of light descends over both of them. It settles and shimmers for a few moments before Eliot twists his left hand, and the shield disappears.

“Wow.” Quentin doesn’t think to contain his wonder. He looks around and takes in their room, feeling now more fully in the present, in Manhattan, in 2020. “Thank you,” he says, and kisses Eliot again, just because he can.

Eliot takes his hands. “So,” he pauses, his expression kind but inscrutable as he catches Quentin’s eyes, “Margo found the Mosaic, and our cottage.” 

“She… she did?”

“Yes. She went there herself. Q… um.” Eliot fidgets a little, but his voice is warm and honest. “All of our things are still there. The things we made and built and used are physically, actually there. And… and our graves are there, too.”

“For real?” Quentin is stunned, and something very warm is beginning to happen in his heart.

“Yes,” Eliot says, “she brought me a piece of pottery that I _ made, _ Q. That I _ remember making. _”

“Woah. Oh my god, El. Can I see it?” 

“Yes.” Eliot climbs off the bed briefly and brings Quentin a cloth-wrapped bundle that he hadn’t seen him leave on their dresser. He unwraps a handmade ceramic baking dish and sets it in his hands. 

Quentin runs his fingers along the spiraling whorls of the pattern. “I… El, I’m trying to stay in the present, but…” His mind is flooding with images of brown, blue, and purple pottery, and he can smell the scent of the glaze in the wood-fired kiln, “I didn’t remember this, exactly, but now I remember… so many things that you made. Wow.” 

“I know. Me too. Can you… would you feel if it’s damaged at all?”

Quentin nods and sets the dish in his lap. Holding his hands slightly above it, he probes it with his magic and finds nothing wrong, nothing that calls out to be mended, but he does find _ something_. “It’s perfect,” he turns it slowly in his hands, “but it does feel like I’ve mended it before.” With a small smile, he reverently hands the dish to Eliot, who re-wraps it and returns it to the dresser and then climbs into the bed next to Quentin and puts his arm around him.

“El,” Quentin's heart is speeding up in his chest, “you realize what this means, right?” 

Eliot nods. “We think it’s been, seventy-four years?” 

“Yes,” Quentin confirms, “I think so. I think I died in 1946, based on the books. So our grandkids will be nearly a hundred if they’re living… it’s not likely, but I guess there’s a small chance, and they might remember us, and… and the babies—and if they had any others after we were gone—they’d be in their seventies. So. So that’s probably three generations, after them, so El…” He looks up at Eliot sitting in the bed with him, looking young and handsome and cultured with his elegant waistcoat and beautifully styled curls, and shakes his head at the weirdness of it all, “we’re almost definitely four-times great grandparents _ right now. _”

Eliot smiles a big, giddy, bewildered-looking smile. “And,” Quentin can’t help but add, “we’re probably the only men in the history of Earth to have this exact conversation.”

Eliot laughs and wraps both arms around him. “What are we going to do about it all?” 

“I have no idea,” Quentin reaches up and begins carefully untying Eliot’s tie, “but this just makes me so… I’m just so happy, you know? We have to go to Fillory soon. I know you’re starting fall term, but maybe before that? We have to at least find the records, for Ted and the kids.” 

Quentin closes his eyes as Eliot leans in and kisses him. His lips are warm and soft and perfect, and Quentin’s heart feels so _ full. _“Okay,” Eliot says, touching his forehead to Quentin’s, “that sounds good. Just, um, don’t go introducing us to our descendants without checking in with me first, okay? If we decide to do something like that, I want to be ready for it together. Deal?”

“Yeah,” Quentin agrees, starting in on Eliot’s buttons, “that’s a deal.”

***

Quentin wakes early and pads quietly out into the kitchen in his pajama pants, to start the coffee pot. With four people in the apartment, he isn’t going to mess around with the french press—they will need a full pot, at least. When he slips back into their room with two hot mugs, Eliot is sitting up in bed. His hair is fluffy and sticking up asymmetrically, and he has a soft, sleepy look on his face. Quentin’s heart swoops. 

“Here you go, love.” He hands a mug to Eliot, who takes it with both hands and a grateful smile, then slides back into bed to sit beside him with his own coffee. Eliot hums warmly as he sips, and Quentin listens to him, happy to hear it. He loves El’s ability to just enjoy things; he’s grateful to be able to just be beside him, enjoying him enjoying his coffee.

Quentin’s coffee isn’t bad either, actually. 

After a few moments, Eliot seems to surface from his sleep and coffee reverie. “Q,” he says gently, “can I ask you something?”

“Um. Yeah, of course.”

Eliot looks dreamy and wistful. “Do you still remember sending the letter, with the key and the fruit?”

Quentin nods. “Yeah, I do.” They’ve talked about it before, how it had taken him a while to decide how to get the key to Margo, and the details of the letter. He holds his coffee in his lap and looks softly at Eliot.

“Did you put a memory charm on all of it? Is that how we remembered?”

Quentin laughs quietly, startled by the sweetness of that idea. “No,” he replies, “not consciously, anyway. I put a preservation spell on all of it, and I tried to channel, like, a lot of love into it. I thought there was a small chance that Margo would stop us, and a different _ us _ would stay here, and complete the quest—but it was just a hope. The keys were for Margo.”

He waits in the quiet for a minute, watching Eliot absorb that. Quentin had known that he would never know the future. He had known that he was going to die in Fillory, had mostly expected that to be their one and only, final life. At the time, it had been. Their entire, beautiful life together, lived out in full at the mosaic. “My magic might have had something to do with our memories, but I like to think it was kind of a gift, you know? From the quest, or maybe from Magic itself.”

Setting down his coffee mug, Quentin leans his head on Eliot’s shoulder; El puts an arm around him, and kisses him on the head. “It does feel that way, doesn’t it?” Eliot asks. “I just wondered. It seemed like the kind of thing you might do, create a gift of memories from _ then you _ to _ now us_. It’s romantic.” 

“Yeah,” Quentin considers, “it is.” That’s nice, that El thinks of him as romantic. “I don’t think it even _ could _ have been just me, though, because we both have our own memories, not just mine.” Eliot hums thoughtfully at that. “Also, I mean, tell me if it’s different for you, but for me it’s not just mental memories and feelings. There’s a lot of _ sense memory_, and even, like, _ muscle memory_, which just doesn’t make fucking sense, does it?” 

“No, it doesn’t,” Eliot answers, “but there it is. Sometimes I feel like _ old me, _ and then I feel weird about it.” He laughs softly and looks down, shaking his head, “I guess I’ll have to work on coming to some kind of peace with that. Like I want to live my real, current life, with you now, but I can’t deny that sometimes it feels like there’s almost a… a continuity of consciousness, with how vivid the memories are lately.”

Quentin hums in agreement and nuzzles into Eliot’s neck. Eliot squeezes him tighter and kisses his forehead. They sit together in the intimate quiet for a few moments, before Eliot breaks the silence.

“Q, I had something special planned for tomorrow night, for _us_. But now… I don’t know. I don’t want it to be overshadowed by all this_._” He waves his hand to include the pottery baking dish on the dresser. “I was going to do something pretty mosaic-reminiscent, but I don’t want it to be _about that_, you know? So now, I’m not sure… maybe I shouldn’t…”

Quentin interrupts, “Do it anyway, El.”

“Um, are you sure?”

“Yes. Please… whatever you have planned, I want you to still do it. I want to see it. I’ll keep in mind that it’s not ‘about that,’ I promise.” Quentin’s heart has begun pounding in his chest, again. If this is what he hopes it is, he doesn’t want to wait any longer than absolutely necessary.

“Really?” Eliot asks. Quentin nods resolutely. He has a sudden urge to kiss Eliot, so he takes hold of his shoulders and swings up over his lap, straddling him, and does. Eliot hums, clearly not objecting to the surprise, and returns the kiss. His lips are soft and warm and taste like coffee; it’s perfect, and Quentin thinks he’ll just _ stay._

“All right,” Eliot finally agrees, breaking their kiss with a soft laugh, “if you’re sure.” He catches Quentin’s eyes before he can kiss him again. “So, I have a few errands to run this morning. Margo wants you to go shopping with her.” Quentin rolls his eyes, but nods. He trails his fingertips up Eliot’s chest. “I’ll ask her not to keep you out all day, so you can get some downtime before we all go to dinner. But I only have so much control over Margo.”

“Well, that’s as it should be,” says Quentin, leaning over to kiss the side of Eliot’s neck.

“Indeed,” Eliot smirks. He takes hold of Quentin’s shoulders and brings their foreheads together. “But tomorrow, I really will need the apartment to myself all day, to not spoil the surprise. Margo and Julia will both be free…” Quentin starts kissing his neck again. He wonders if he can derail Eliot’s train of thought completely? He moves down to his collarbone, as Eliot carries valiantly on: “I was thinking maybe you could all have brunch and then go to the natural history museum?” He presses back up, to kiss beneath Eliot’s jaw. “Or the Met? That’s just an idea, I mean… mmm… whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want, huh?” Quentin slides one arm around Eliot’s back and wraps his other hand around the back of his neck, pressing their chests together.

“Yes, but this is the important part, sweetheart,” Eliot says with a laugh, “come home alone, at seven, ready for, um, date night at home.”

“Date night at home?” Quentin giggles, briefly pausing his attention to the shell of Eliot’s ear. It sounds like about the best thing possible, actually, but he has to tease El, just a little. 

_ “ _Yes. I’m making you dinner,” Eliot confirms. He tilts Quentin’s head and sucks on his neck, just below his ear. Quentin’s brain shorts out. “But don’t get all fancy on me, please. Not even a jacket, just your regular, beautiful self.”

“I don’t know how you see me that way,” Quentin murmurs, breathless, as Eliot kisses along his jaw. He feels his fingers thread up into his hair.

“It’s the truth. There’s no way I could not.”

“Beauty is subjective,” says Quentin. He presses their hips together and pulls Eliot, hard and warm, tight against him with his legs.

“Nope,” says Eliot, biting Quentin’s lip as he begins to kiss him. 

Quentin, sinking into the kiss, decides not to argue the point.


	5. Eliot

Eliot uses his fingertips to delicately brush the excess flour from the top of the bread dough. It has been on its second proof for about seven hours, and seems ready now: a springy, soft mound that he’s just carefully tipped into the center of his large, red dutch oven, steadying it with his telekinesis. He’d gotten up very early to get this started, repeatedly folding it through the first proof and then tucking it away to rise while he picked up the flowers, prepped the vegetables, and set the table. Live yeast takes a long time. This would normally be done overnight, but on a warm summer day he can squeeze it in and have it done in time for dinner.

He smiles wistfully to himself. The dough is perfect; he’s so eager to taste the bread. The scent of the yeast teases memories and feelings as Eliot tries to stay focused. He wipes his floury fingertips on his white baker’s apron, then scores the top of the loaf in a gentle spiral with a sharp knife, adding tiny cuts that will [ resemble leaves when it’s finished ](https://www.instagram.com/p/BiKssk_HgqT/). Finally, he covers the pot with its heavy, enameled cast iron lid before carefully sliding it into the hot oven.

Eliot takes a sip of wine to steady his increasing nerves. He opens his phone and taps a playlist of classic Billie Holiday and Nina Simone and listens to the brassy opening trumpet strains of “[ Stars Fell on Alabama ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6ibV3tCDvd8),” hoping that the music will steady him while he works. He takes a deep breath. Two hours. Quentin will be home in two hours, and all of this will happen.

Crossing to the sink, Eliot lifts the colander and rinses the salt from his thinly sliced little eggplants and summer squash, then shakes them off and lifts them by handfuls onto a clean towel, patting away the water and leaving them to dry even more while he slices the ripe tomatoes. He retrieves several sprigs of Robin-run-up-the-hedge from the balcony and deftly strips the leaves from the stems, rubbing them gently in his fingers to bruise them. Eliot can’t help it—he smells his fingers and has to steady himself against the countertop as a shiver of memory runs through him, as his body feels old and stiff and he remembers standing in another kitchen, tucked around Quentin, solid and soft, as he rubs herbs in his less-shaky hands. 

Was this a good idea? He wonders, again, if he can handle it, whether Quentin can, if it will be confusing their lives too much to do it like this, to bring up all of this. He should have _ thought, _ when he was planning this evening. He _ knows _ how strongly sense can be tied to memory, or at least it is for him. He’d tried to ask Quentin, though, and Q had said, “please,” and “I want to see it,” and “I promise.” So. Quentin trusts and believes in Eliot so much more than he trusts or believes in himself. He takes another steadying breath and gets ready to cook.

The special dish doesn’t really have a name; it’s just “the special dish.” Eliot has carefully washed and dried the old stoneware dish, and now he brings it to the counter and thickly butters the inside, then begins to build a tight spiral of upright slices of different colors of tomatoes, eggplant, and squash. The leaves of the herbs get tucked between the slices, with little dabs of creamy sheep’s milk butter. No one had ever taught him to make ratatouille, but he’d had a vague idea of it. In Fillory, he’d improvised with what they could grow or barter for; this meal had evolved, and eventually settled, into something they both loved.

Eliot tucks the last few slices of vegetables into the design. The swirl of late summer colors is lovely—he’s created a slight ombre effect, with the deeper colors around the edge blending to softer shades in the center. He adds more dots of butter to the top, sprinkles it with sea salt, and uses his fingertips to crumble the cheese over everything. He swallows the lump in his throat and gently places the dish on the back of the counter, to wait for its turn in the oven. Reaching into the cupboard, he retrieves a bottle of port, and begins to make the plum sauce for dessert. _ “ _ [ _ I’m with you always _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RL_P-gHxI3Y) _ ,” _ he sings along gently as Lady Day croons, _ “I’m with you rain, or shine.”_

When Eliot finally lifts the bread out of the blazing hot pot it’s big and round and a golden caramel brown. The crust is crisp, with tiny bubbles in the surface. It’s beautiful, _ beautiful enough for Quentin_, but his swell of pride in creating this is caught in a torrent of memory as he takes in the unmistakable earthy, toasty, slightly nutty scent of it. He remembers handing out thick slices to eager children, barely cool enough to hold, the butter melting instantly into the crumb as Quentin helped them hold their slices by the edges with both tiny hands.

The bread cools as the special dish bakes, the plum sauce sitting in the warm spot on the back of the stove. Eliot tidies the kitchen as quickly as he can, using magic liberally, then unties his apron and goes to change his clothes. As he steps into their bedroom, the master on the first floor of the penthouse where he’d ended up when he’d been unable to climb the stairs, he takes in the smooth slate-grey linens on their bed and the tasteful modern and Art Deco prints on their walls. He listens to the sounds of the city outside through their open bedroom windows. _ I’m here, _ he thinks. _ I’m here, and I’m doing this. The best thing I can do, with my life._

The shirt he’s chosen for tonight is a subtly patterned lilac, paired with a silk vest in a violet grey, with darker grey trousers and black shoes, all brought together by a tie in shades of plum that will bring out the gold and green in his eyes. He ties his tie with practiced motions, grateful for the muscle memory that allows him to create the elaborate knot even though his fingers want to shake. Those shaky fingers wash his face, and style the curls of his hair, and dab a drop of cologne at the notch of this throat. It’s almost time. 

Returning to the kitchen, Eliot checks on the special dish. It’s done. The colors of the vegetables have deepened even further, to rich reds and purples and oranges, and the cheese has toasted to little dabs of gold. The scent is amazing, and Eliot keeps himself in the present through a combination of nerves and sheer force of will as he turns off the heat. He lifts the still-cooling bread and sets it back in the oven, right on the rack, and leaves the door ajar to keep everything warm. 

Dragging in some deep breaths, Eliot thinks about Quentin. Young Quentin, _ now Quentin, _ who lives with him here, in New York. Quentin who is studying magic and medicine simultaneously, who has healed so much of Eliot, in so many different ways. His Quentin does magical research for everyone who asks. He does yoga, hilariously, with Julia in the living room; he takes medication for his depression; he listens to pop music and has a subscription to HBO for the fantasy and sci fi series. His Quentin has just gone to Pride for the second year in a row, and celebrated with genuine and adorable enthusiasm. Then he turned twenty-eight and was reluctant to celebrate at all, conceding in the end only out of some sort of evolving grace in the face of the love of his friends. Eliot loves him. He loves him with all of his heart, bruised and tender and scarred and cracked-open as it frequently feels. And he wants to marry him. 

He quiets the music, lowers the lights, and opens the wine. He checks, again, that the ring is in his vest pocket. Although he has been through many insanely stressful events, where his own life or the future of magic or of the world has hung in the balance, Eliot feels, in this moment, that he has never been quite so nervous in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've enjoyed this story thus far! It will be at least a few days before I begin updating again, and the last four chapters may take longer to post than I originally planned (I just learned that next week my kids will be home from school _all week,_ whoops.) But we will get there. Thank you for reading!


	6. Quentin

Margo and Jules are going to… some more places. Quentin knows that much, but that’s about all he remembers right now. Somewhere, they’ll be having dinner, and then they’re going to see… a show? And then to… a club, maybe? Something like a club. Point is, they’ve dropped him off at their building, said “have a good time on your date, Q,” as though he and Eliot were _ dating, _and left in the cab. 

Margo had insisted on fiddling with his hair beforehand, digging her nails into his scalp, moving pieces around, and finally pronouncing his “volume situation” adequate. She’d also made him change his shirt, into a button-up that she’d been magically carrying, wrinkle-free, in her bag all day. The fabric is soft and has a little bit of shine to it, in a shade of dark blue that Margo called “deep peacock.” Julia said it was “indigo.” Whatever; he likes the color, it seems to go with his dark jeans and black shoes, and it fits him really well. Quentin is too nervous about tonight to particularly care. 

He takes the elevator up to the landing, opening and closing his hands and wiping them on his jeans, and tries to act like a person. He is just going home to have dinner with Eliot. Like almost every day. He is excited to see him. Again, totally normal. Super normal.

Except. Except tonight, there’s something special. Something that might be _ very _ special. 

He stands a few steps back from their door and checks the time on his phone. He has, like, four minutes. He runs his hands backward through his hair. _ Breathe_. _ Deep breaths… counting… _

He really hopes he knows what’s coming. Quentin knows himself, and he _ wants _ to be married. Misses it, (weirdly but genuinely,) has been ready for a _ while. _ But, he’s waiting for Eliot, and aside from a couple of romantic hints early on, he hasn’t said anything. Due to the particular scars left on their relationship under Margo’s wedding arch, _ Eliot _ needs to be the one to ask, and Quentin is sure that they both know it. 

_ Maybe this isn’t even that. _

“Date night at home,” Eliot had said. 

_ Okay Coldwater, go in the door. Go see your person. _

He does the quick tut to unlock the door and cracks it. “Eliot?” he calls inside. 

Then the door is opening and Eliot is stepping toward him. “Q.” His smile is beautiful. _ He’s _ beautiful, with his soft curls barely long enough to tuck behind his ears, eyes shining under his long, dark lashes as he looks down, shy-looking even with the smile, a rosy flush high on his cheeks. The moment Quentin sees him, his nerves melt away. He’s taken two steps toward him when he catches the scent, distant but intimately familiar; it smells like _ home. _ Suddenly, he finds himself falling into Eliot’s arms. 

“El,” he breathes, “you didn’t. Oh…” he can hardly believe it, “you did.” He presses his face into Eliot’s shoulder and squeezes him tight, shaking with soft, overwhelmed laughter.

“Q! Oh no, are you all right? I’m sorry, maybe this wasn’t…”

“Nope, no, no, El. Um, it’s good, it’s great! I’m, um…” He scrambles to course-correct; Eliot has misunderstood. He leans back to look at him. “I’m _ happy. _ Really happy. It’s okay. I didn’t mean to scare you. I love it.”

“It’s okay? You’re okay?” Eliot holds his face and searches his eyes. Quentin smiles at him and pushes up on his toes to kiss him. 

“Yes. Wow. Super okay. I love you.”

Eliot sighs with relief and wraps Quentin in a tight hug, tucking his head under his chin. “Okay. Okay. I love you, too.” Quentin can feel him shudder out a deep breath.

“Show me?” he asks. “Let’s go see.” 

Eliot takes his hand. “Okay, yeah, let’s go.”

***

Eliot leads him to the kitchen, and Quentin notices that everything looks… extra nice. Even Eliot looks extra nice, somehow, although he doesn’t know how that’s possible. The way his eyes catch the light… 

Eliot slips on oven mitts and reaches into the oven, lifting out a gorgeous hand-shaped loaf of bread and setting it on the counter, then turning back and gingerly raising the old stoneware dish with both hands and placing it on the island between them, as well. Quentin stares at the special dish, the brightly colored, caramelized edges of the roasted vegetables in their spiral. It’s beautiful,and almost exactly the same as he remembers it. The bread smells _ exactly the same. _He blinks to try to keep the tears out of his eyes, aware that he’s grinning in that big way that often leads Eliot to reach out and touch his dimples. “El…” he looks up at Eliot’s nervous, beautiful eyes, “it’s perfect.” 

Eliot smiles and looks down at his hands, then floats an open bottle of wine and two glasses to himself and begins to pour.

“How did you do it?”

“Margo helped.” He hands Quentin a glass of wine, and takes a sip of his own. “The tomatoes and eggplant and the butter are from the farmers’ market, but everything else came from Fillory. I just… remembered. I wanted to make you the special dish.”

“Wow.” Eliot is looking at him with those soft eyes he gets. _ God. _Quentin feels so lucky.

“Can we,” it takes him some effort to speak, “can we try it?”

“Yeah. Of course we can.” Quentin watches him pull a wooden cutting board and knife from a drawer. Between the two of them and Eliot’s telekinesis, they get everything moved to the dining room. 

The table is already set, and there are flowers on the mantle. The sheer curtains are drawn, muting the early evening sunlight. Some kind of smoky-sounding, old romantic jazz is playing softly from somewhere. Eliot sets everything out just so, and Quentin grins cheekily when he beats Eliot to it and pulls out his chair for him. 

“El,” Quentin says, sitting down, “I really want to, um… Will it bother you, if I don’t worry about having good time-and-space boundaries, for a little while? It’s just… this was my favorite for ages, and I’m really excited. I might get carried away. You know, in memories and stuff. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, Q,” Eliot speaks softly, as though he’s sharing something very private with him, which Quentin supposes he kind of is. “That’s okay. That… that sounds great, honestly. Let’s enjoy it together.”

Quentin slices the bread into thick slices, the crust crackling under his fingers and the edge of the knife, while Eliot pours them a little more wine. Then Eliot carefully lifts scoops of buttery, fragrant vegetables and arranges the colorful pattern atop the sliced, buttered bread. 

“I love that you did this for me,” Quentin says. “It’s such a work of art.” 

“I love that I still can,” Eliot replies, light but sincere, “I hope you’ll like it.”

Quentin feels a little shy as he takes the first bite. It’s wonderful. Warm and rich, complex. He grins at Eliot, trying not to speak with his mouth full, and gestures for him to try it too. Eliot takes a tiny bite. It takes him a second, then he leans back in his chair and slaps his thigh, his eyes shiny with feeling and a matching grin on his face. 

Quentin can feel a wave of memories, but he holds them back and quickly leans over to kiss Eliot. That’s the strongest thing, the most important thing right now. _ Just kiss Eliot_. El seems to be completely on board with his priorities, kissing him back tenderly, then laughing a little against his lips. 

“How are we…” Quentin begins, “I just… it’s… we’re so lucky.” Eliot has taken another bite, but his eyes twinkle and he nods in agreement. “It’s perfect.” 

Quentin takes Eliot’s hand, and eats. He closes his eyes, vividly remembering birthdays and anniversaries celebrated on warm, Fillorian summer evenings. Family dinners and romantic dinners. Teddy laughing loudly at the trestle table when he was a pre-teen. Picnics, leaning back in Eliot’s arms. _ Oh. _There’s quite a lot of very vivid birthday sex, too. Quentin can feel himself blushing. He peeks up at Eliot and giggles. 

“Good memories, sweetheart?” Eliot asks gently, taking a sip of his wine.

“Yeah,” Quentin confirms. “So many.” He may be smirking a little bit. “I’m really starting to feel better about my birthday.” 

Eliot guffaws. “I love your birthday.” 

“I love _ you_.”

Squeezing Eliot’s hand, Quentin lets himself sink into how good this is. It’s so familiar: the crisp crust of the bread, the softness of the vegetables, the sweetness, earthiness, tang of tomato, salt of the cheese… it’s like his body remembers it. He ignores how impossible that is, and enjoys it.

“Do you remember,” Eliot asks after a bit, “how exciting it was when we were first able to get butter?” 

Quentin thinks about it. “Yeah,” he says, “I wanted toast so bad, and you…” he trails off, remembering those early forays to the village, their anxiety about leaving the mosaic, and how hard it was for Eliot to be gone, even for half a day.

“I wanted to take care of you,” Eliot supplies. “But also, it was so fucking good to have butter.” 

“Yeah.” Quentin watches Eliot’s eyes crinkle a little at the corners. _ You always took care of me_. 

It’s true, though. He’d been so well-loved, in that life, and was settled in a way that kind of blows his mind now, honestly. Although some of that seems to have carried over—like he knows himself better, and feels less uncertain about life than he had before. And even though Eliot is different, he knows him at his core in a way that couldn’t have been possible, yet, had their key quest not happened. He’s terribly grateful for the gift of that lifetime.

“How did you get the bread to, um, be like this?” Quentin asks.

“Well…” Eliot seems oddly hesitant. “We’re now the proud owners of a jar of Biberey bakery yeast. It has to be fed every day, normally, but I’m sure I can slow that down with magic… or, um, maybe refrigeration.” Eliot smiles and looks at his hands. It isn’t often that he looks shy. “I… I hope you don’t mind. I know it’s not from _ now…” _

“El,” Quentin interrupts, _“love,” _he reaches out and takes his hand again, and Eliot looks up, “it’s okay. It can be a part of _now._” 

“Are you sure?” Eliot is so obviously trying to do the right thing. And he just wants to make bread like he remembers because it makes him happy. And Quentin loves him _ so much. _

“Yeah,” he tells him. “It’s awesome. I kind of can’t believe that you actually got the right village yeast—except that I know you, and I totally _ can— _but, I mean, we can kind of do whatever we want, right?” 

“Including carrying some things over from the past?”

“Things as good as this?” Quentin smiles, buttering a sliver of bread and handing it to Eliot. “Fuck, absolutely. You know what’s amazing with this bread, El?” He gestures around them. “This really good Earth wine. And… and being in New York, with like, concerts, and plays, and art, and city life. And _ you_, the way you are _ now_. I’m not going to confuse our lives, love. I promise. I don't think you will, either.”

Eliot looks at him with incredible fondness. “Thank you,” he says, sounding surprised and touched. “I’m going to experiment with different kinds of flour from Earth, but I think I’d like to keep making the old bread.”

“I’d love that.” 

“I love _ you_,” Eliot says, his voice soft with gratitude.

When they get to dessert, Eliot surprises him again, retreating to the kitchen and bringing back bowls and a warm compote made with fresh black plums, spices, and a little port. It’s lovely, and it smells amazing. 

“Hold on,” Eliot says, “it’s to go with this.” From behind his back, he produces a pint of vanilla Häagen-dazs.

It’s too perfect, and Quentin starts to laugh. “You know that’s originally from Brooklyn, right?”

Eliot’s smile is wistful as he scoops it into the bowls and spoons the plums on top. “I remembered.”

Now it’s Quentin’s turn to be touched. “Do you mean, you remembered how much I missed ice cream?” 

“Yes, that too.” Eliot sits down with him. His eyes are warm, but he looks hesitant. Quentin realizes, with surprise, that he’s nervous. “I thought, maybe, a bit of the best of both worlds? I hope it’s not too much.”

“No, it’s not too much. I’m… it’s thoughtful. Thank you.” He smiles and takes his hand and leans over to kiss him again, and is relieved to see Eliot relax. 

As they enjoy their ice cream, Eliot tells Quentin about the spices in the sauce, including cloves (which don’t grow in Fillory) and some very special cinnamon from Indonesia. It’s delicious, and Quentin is happy to listen to Eliot, and watch him while he talks about this, one of the many aspects of his life that he treats like art. He’s animated and captivating. Quentin thinks back to when he first met Eliot, how special it had felt to just be, unaccountably, in his orbit. He smiles a private little smile to himself, and enjoys a flash of not-at-all-mature pride that _ he _was the one who had snagged Eliot Waugh, in the end. 

“How was your day in exile from the apartment?” Eliot asks. 

Smiling easily, Quentin tells him about how they had visited the New York Public Library, eaten some fantastic hot dogs from a street vendor, walked through Central Park, and spent the afternoon at the American Museum of Natural History. Julia had been fairly certain that magic could bring mastodons back, and Margo had rolled her eyes at Quentin and called him a nerd when he’d tried to explain, in detail, how he thought they would decimate the ecology of Fillory, given the chance. It had been wonderful, spending the day with Margo and Jules, showing off places he loved. 

Quentin is thoughtful as he finishes his last bite. “I’m so glad we get to have them in our lives.” 

“So am I,” Eliot squeezes his hand. 

They sit together in the quiet of the warm evening, hands linked casually on the table between them. Quentin feels at ease: happy and in love. Just as he’s beginning to wonder what will happen next, Eliot gently clears his throat and looks up from their joined hands.

“Q, I was hoping… will you dance with me? Just a little?”

“Yeah, I… okay.” It’s easy to imagine wrapping his arm around Eliot’s waist, how good it will be to lean in and hold him, to smell his cologne and brush against his throat. “I’d love to.”

He watches as Eliot slides the dishes back and performs a couple of small tuts: dimming the room, bringing candles to light, raising the music slightly. The curtains open to reveal city lights spreading out beyond them. Eliot stands up from the table and holds out his hand. 

Quentin feels like he’s moving in a dream. He takes Eliot’s hand, and rises.


	7. Eliot (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that I'm currently imagining playing softly while Quentin and Eliot dance is "The Very Thought of You," probably the Etta James version, which can be heard here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M1rYo_W7YkQ .

Eliot takes a careful breath as he curves one hand around Quentin’s shoulder blade, and holds his hand gently with the other, beginning to sway them slowly together, close and intimate. They _ can _ dance, _ have _ danced, but now, he just wants to move with him and hold him close. He feels the solid warmth of Quentin's chest against him, and breathes in the faint, woody scent of his hair.

Quentin’s eyes shine in the flickering candlelight as he looks up at Eliot with a warm, knowing expression. He looks at him like he loves him. 

Eliot takes it in and lets it wash over him: the feeling of being loved by Quentin. He lets it buoy him, and pushes down his nerves. It’s a lot, putting his heart completely out there, reaching for the thorough sincerity that Quentin deserves. The temptation is obvious to somehow finesse this, to make it a little light, or a little funny. Leave some things not quite said; give himself breathing room. But no. Q deserves more than that. He deserves the truth, the best that Eliot can do. _ You can do this, _ he tells himself, as the song begins to trail away, _ ready: go. _

The candlelight flickers, and he twists his fingers behind Quentin’s back to soften the music, a little bit. Quentin has rested his head against his shoulder, and Eliot spins with him gently and leans down to murmur in his ear. 

“Q, I need to… I’d like to say some things, okay?”

Quentin lifts his head and focuses on Eliot, nodding. He feels Quentin’s arm tighten around his back, and looks in his soft, beautiful brown eyes, wide open as he listens.

“Q,” Eliot begins, pushing past the lump in his throat, “I’ve never told anyone this, in so many words, but for a really long time, I… I honestly expected my life to be a tragedy. I know that’s fucked up, but it’s true: I always thought the best I could hope for was that it would be a _ beautiful _ one. But I never expected it to end well.” Quentin looks sad and adorably belligerent—his lips parted, as if he wants to argue with that—but he shakes his head slightly, and lets Eliot continue. 

“After… everything, and the mistakes I made, for you to forgive me, give me another chance, even still love me—it’s more than I deserve. But you… you _ did_. You _ do_. Q, you make me happier, and braver, and _ better _ than I ever thought I could be.”

They’ve gradually stopped dancing, and are holding one another, the lights of the city blinking through the windows beside them and candlelight warming their faces. Quentin looks intent, like he’s trying to absorb every word that Eliot says. Eliot holds tight to his hand and pushes himself past the fear in his stomach, relieved that he’s planned what he needs to say.

“Q, I _ treasure _ the memories of… of our other life. But I meant it that this, tonight, isn’t about that. Quentin,” Eliot takes both of Quentin’s hands, and steps back to look him seriously in the eyes. He takes a breath; he’s ready to fully hand over his heart. 

“I want to spend this life with you. _ My _ life. I want to do… everything I can, to make you happy. I know that you love me, and that you know your own heart, and I’m sorry that it took me so long to believe it. But for as long as you’ll have me, in this life or any life, I’ll swear to be yours.” 

Eliot’s eyes sting with tears as he drops to one knee in front of Quentin and releases his right hand to bring the ring from his pocket. He has never been more sure of anything. Quentin is standing before him, his hand in his, blinking his own tears from the corners of his eyes, brimming with feeling. He has that soft smile, the one he only ever seems to have for Eliot. He’s listening.

“Q,” Eliot continues, “I love you with all my heart. With everything I have, every part of me, I love you. Would you…” he swallows, looking up at him, “will you marry me?” 

“El,” Quentin says, his voice cracking, “Oh my god. Yes.”

Before he knows it, Quentin has pulled him to his feet and into a strong, fierce hug. The first thing he feels, the overwhelming thing that threatens to knock him over and makes him list in Quentin’s arms, is _ relief. _ He’s going to get to _ keep _ him. Quentin wants to be _ his. _

He doesn’t feel his tears break free, but he does feel his heart swell as Quentin releases him just enough to kiss. He finds Quentin’s hand and quickly slides the thick gold band onto his right ring finger.

He kisses him, and _kisses_ him, and wants to never stop kissing him. Quentin holds him very tight, and in a burst of joy Eliot actually lifts him, holding him up for a moment while they embrace. 

When they finally pull apart, catching their breath, Eliot holds Quentin’s face in his hands, both of their cheeks wet with tears. He touches his forehead to Q’s, can’t resist another gentle kiss. “It's a love story, isn't it?” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” Quentin replies, soft, and Eliot feels his eyelashes flutter against his cheek, “a love story.”


	8. Eliot (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene is not _very_ explicit, and having changed the rating to "explicit" out of caution when it was originally published, I'm now changing it back because I really don't think it quite qualifies. 
> 
> For those who would rather not read a sex scene, just skip this chapter; the rest of the story will still make sense and be plenty sweet without it.

It’s an easy thing, a simple thing, the way they make their way to the bedroom a little while later, laughter in their chests and their fingers twined tightly together. 

“Will you keep making it for me?” Quentin asks, kneeling behind Eliot while he sits on the edge of the bed and swiftly unlaces his shoes. Quentin’s hands settle on his shoulders, and Eliot feels a little frisson of delight at the question. 

“You'd like me to keep making the special dish?” 

“Yeah, I really would.” Quentin’s voice is gentle as he leans his warm weight against Eliot’s back and wraps his arms around his chest. “Maybe like, once a year? So it stays special?”

“I didn’t know whether  _ now you _ would want that,” Eliot says softly. 

“I do. I love it.  _ Now Me  _ also wants to marry  _ Now You.” _

Eliot has to kiss him, at that, so sweet and corny and perfect. He turns to face Quentin and pulls him in, then kisses him slowly, reverently, his heart fluttering in his chest, trying to pour his adoration into the kiss. Quentin has never wanted him to hold back, not really. He must feel it, it seems, because he’s breathless when Eliot breaks away, sputtering and swaying a little where he’s sitting up on his knees. Then, with characteristic Coldwater directness, he smiles a lovely half-smile and says, “Let’s go to bed.”

Eliot turns off the lamp and lights a candle on the bedside table, rolling his fingers gently upward through the motion of a fire spell. He’d thought he would feel the weight of great expectation on this moment—as though he needed to demonstrate the depth of his devotion, condensed into one act of lovemaking—but instead he feels light: bubbling and euphoric, grateful and relieved.

Humming his happiness deep in his chest, Eliot slides Quentin out of his shoes and clothes. His fingers trace the graceful slopes of Quentin’s collar bones, thumbs gliding beneath his jaw and up behind his ears as he leans forward to kiss him. It’s effortless to let buttons and laces slip magically apart, helping Quentin free him from his own clothing as they kiss, pressed together and sitting up on their knees in the center of their bed.

The late summer night is warm and humid, sultry city air and soft city sounds wafting through the open screens of their windows. Eliot wraps an arm around Quentin’s back and slides his other hand up to cup the back of his neck, Quentin’s strong hands hot against his shoulder blades. He kisses him until he feels nearly lost in it, warm and wet and languid. Quentin moans into his mouth, and Eliot feels a surge of connection, from what they’re doing now, and from what they have agreed to do, together, with their lives. It’s as though he’s been swimming, and has slid suddenly into deeper, steadier water.

Eliot finally breaks away, only to gently press Quentin back onto the bed, letting their legs unfold as he begins to kiss his way down Q’s body.  _ I love these things about you, _ he thinks, kissing Quentin’s broad shoulders and the swell of his pecs, running his hands over his masculine, softly furred forearms and thighs, and laving his tongue over his small, stiff nipples, dark in the dramatic candlelight.  _ I’ve always loved these things about you. _

When Eliot arrives at Quentin’s ticklish, sensitive hip bones, Q says, “El, hey, can we… I want…” reaching for Eliot’s hip while attempting to angle himself around to face him upside down, to pull him in, and Eliot is surprised for a second as he catches on. He cracks a big smile.

“Of course, sweetheart,” he soothes. “Yeah. Of course we can.” 

He gives Q everything he asks for, as they pivot and slide and find the right geometry of bodies to get their mouths on one another at the same time, with Quentin hovering over him, passionate and eager. They don’t do this often—it’s tricky, with their height difference—but  _ oh _ , it’s  _ lovely _ when they do. Quentin is so wonderfully sensitive, open and… and responsive, and always, always thrilled to be using that clever, beautiful mouth. He’s fucking good at it, even upside down, and so hot for it… so stunningly  _ hot _ in general. Eliot lets himself revel in how gorgeously erotic this is, how good it feels. Quentin is perfect for him; he still hasn’t stopped being incredulous at his luck.

Eliot eventually repositions Quentin slightly and pulls his hips down so he can begin to kiss and lick around Q’s soft, sensitive rim. This isn’t something that Quentin is able to ask for yet, but he  _ clearl _ y enjoys it, and it isn’t long at all before he melts into one long, moaning, quivering sigh. 

Quentin’s thighs begin to shake, and Eliot pauses his attentions, rubbing his hands firmly up his back. “You should let go, baby, just rest and let me,” he says, and Quentin eventually does, laying his head on Eliot’s hip as Eliot opens him up, fingers and mouth, breathing and moaning softly. Eliot can feel his warm, quick breath on his cock, his soft hair spread across his stomach, and he’s overcome with a sudden wash of emotion, of nearly incredulous gratitude for the  _ intimacy _ between them, like nothing else he’s ever had, at once broken open and healed. 

They end up making love, as they often do, face to face so they can kiss because they both love it, and because  _ Quentin _ loves it, and because Eliot loves  _ him. _ He wants to show him, to give him everything that he can, and he needn’t have worried because it  _ does  _ all condense down to this: this slide of Quentin’s tongue against his own, hot and perfect in his mouth, this movement of his body inside of Quentin’s, careful and sure and thrilling, as energy circles and flows hot and bright between them, like magic.  _ God, it’s beautiful. _ The thought comes to Eliot as he sinks into Quentin, sliding against his prostate just right to light him up.  _ It’s so fucking beautiful. _ He realizes that he will always, always remember this; the night they were engaged, and this perfect, careful moment of Quentin coming slowly undone underneath him, all around him. 

Eliot kisses the hot skin of his neck, feels his shiver as he nibbles his ear. He belongs to this experience, with Quentin, the exquisite beauty of it, what they are creating together. There is nothing, right now, but this: the summer night air and city sounds and smooth dark sheets twisting beneath them as they rise and rise, crest, and tip precariously into each other, ecstatic, wild and resounding, as he just loves him, loves him, loves him.


	9. Quentin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter! Thanks for coming on this little journey with me, and for putting up with me not knowing how to post a chapter-fic properly! I hope you'll enjoy the following morning.

Quentin shifts and stretches under the sheets, enjoying the lengthening of his legs and back, the pull of his muscles, and the slide of his skin against the soft, smooth cotton. One leg is crossed over Eliot’s, and he scooches closer to him as he relaxes, wrapping tighter against his warm skin. 

He feels Eliot’s long fingers thread into his hair and gently rub his scalp. It’s a nice feeling. “Good morning, my love,” Eliot says, his voice gentle and fond.

“Mmmmmm,” Quentin replies, not quite verbal just yet.

Eliot rolls over onto his side and wraps a warm, solid arm around Quentin, leans in and kisses him on his temple. His lips feel warm and soft. Quentin will never get tired of any of this.

“El,” he turns to look up at him, taking in Eliot’s wonderful disheveled fluffy hair and gorgeous hazel eyes, reaching up to rub his fingers through the back of his curls, “how long have you known, that that you wanted to get married?” 

Eliot seems to be thinking about it for a few moments, and Quentin could swear that he sees the quip begin to form behind his lips, before he decides to just answer honestly. “A long time, actually.” He leans down gently kisses the corner of Quentin’s mouth. “I hoped… since we got back together. But I was ready in December.”

Well that’s… stunning. Quentin isn’t upset, but he_ is _puzzled. He scoots up in bed a bit and pushes up on one elbow. “Eight months ago? Why… why did you wait?” 

Eliot looks abashed. It’s an absurdly cute look on him, and Quentin enjoys it while he waits for him to answer. “Well, you know…” Eliot says, rolling his eyes lightly, “nerves. And well, the holidays happened… February depression… and the Lorian peace process… and you know. _ Nerves_. Then I remembered the special dish, and got the idea to make it for you, but then I needed _ Margo’s _ help… and had to wait for the tomatoes and squash to be ripe.” 

Eliot shoots Quentin a game little smile, like he’s hoping this all sounds perfectly sensible. Quentin can’t help but laugh.

“We could have been engaged months ago were it not for the ripening of vegetables? Or maybe even married?”

“Yes?” 

“I don’t know if that’s more romantic or ridiculous.” Quentin reaches out for Eliot and pushes up to give him a quick kiss.

Eliot leans his forehead down against Quentin’s, closes his eyes. “I mean, it didn’t _ not _ work…”

“Pretty sure anything would have worked, El,” Quentin laughs.

Eliot sputters, and Quentin hurries to kiss him on his nose and cheeks, “It was _ perfect_. Love, it was perfect. I’ll never, ever forget it.” He kisses his lips, harder, this time, and sweeter. “Okay?” 

“Okay,” Eliot replies, sliding down and laying his head on Quentin’s shoulder. 

“But just so you know,” Quentin continues, “I would have married you last December, on a moment’s notice, if you’d asked me.”

“A moment's notice?” 

“Yep.” Quentin tightens his arm around Eliot’s shoulder, and bends down to kiss his head. “How would you feel about just… doing that? Just getting married? We have a few weeks until classes start.”

“Coldwater,” Eliot laughs, “do not fuck with me.”

“No, seriously.” _ Might as well try, _ Quentin thinks. “There’s only, what, like six people who would even mean anything to have with us? Ten? And then we’d be _ married. _I’d love that.” 

“Hmmm,” says Eliot. And well, that isn’t a ‘no.’ “Surely, if you love me, you wouldn’t deny me the pleasure of a wedding registry.” 

Quentin can feel Eliot’s smile against his chest. He tips his chin down to look at him. 

“Eliot, if you will agree to a small wedding, like most-important-people-only small, and _ soon, _ I will _ personally _ buy you everything on the wedding registry, if I have to take two jobs to do it.”

Eliot turns over and looks up at Quentin with his chin resting on his chest. “Seriously,” he says, sounding not-at-all-serious, “_ the wardrobe alone_, Quentin. And the florals? Finding a venue? There has to be at least dinner and dancing. And a cake. This is non-negotiable.”

“We’re magicians,” Quentin smirks indulgently down at Eliot, “I believe in us.”

“Oh my _ god.” _Eliot drops his forehead dramatically onto Quentin’s chest. He’s shaking with… suppressed laughter, Quentin realizes with relief. “Let me think about it.”

***

They’re cozied up on the couch with a blanket a couple of hours later when their friends shuffle out into the late morning. Margo and Jules each look a bit worse for the wear, pouring themselves coffee from the second pot that Eliot magnanimously made for them. Quentin snuggles under Eliot’s arm, eminently comfortable against the solid warmth of his side, and watches with amusement as Julia opens the refrigerator door for cream and Margo walks into it. 

“Motherfucker,” she says, holding her head. Eliot snorts delicately and Quentin giggles into his elbow.

When the women finally make their way over to join them on the couch, Jules perches on the edge of the cushion, ladylike in her matching pajamas and neatly tied robe but with disheveled hair and bags under her eyes, and looks at them with an air of patient expectation over the top of her coffee cup. Margo, on the other hand, climbs over the arm of the sofa in hot pink fleece and a tee shirt and settles, cross-legged, into the corner, clutching her mug in both hands. 

She takes a long, slow two-handed pull of her coffee. “Spill,” she commands, a monarch in fluffy slippers and smeared mascara.

Quentin turns to look at Eliot, his _ fiancé, _and finds the quiet they’ve been sharing since they heard their friends stirring still settled around him, as though there aren’t quite words for this, yet… or perhaps it still feels so personal to them that it isn’t easy to crack through that, to bring it out into the sunlight. He meets his eyes with a warm grin and tightens his arm where it’s wrapped around Eliot’s raised knees beneath their blanket. Looking from Margo to Julia, Quentin brings his right hand out from their nest and holds it up to show off the ring.

Julia breaks a huge grin. “About fucking time,” she says, and Quentin loves her for that, because _ she knows. _ She moves over to his side, and as he disentangles from Eliot Julia pulls him in for a tight hug and suddenly they’re having a _ moment. _ He vaguely realizes that Margo is hugging Eliot behind him, now, as Julia says “Jesus, Q, you are so the marrying type.”

“Yeah, I really am.”

“I _ told _ him.”

He has to laugh. It’s absurd to think that Eliot could have even been worried, but this was _ Eliot, _ after all. “Thank you, Jules.” 

She kisses him on the cheek. “Congratulations,” she smiles, and he notices that her eyes have gone a little teary. Julia has known him for so long. Quentin doesn’t want to think back to when she’s seen him at his worst, but he knows that it’s there, all of their history, and her excitement and relief for him are more meaningful than they could possibly be, coming from anyone else. 

Margo eventually demands her turn, and Quentin finds that her customary imperiousness has fallen away when she takes him by both hands and graces him with a warm, sincere smile. “I’m so happy for you, honey,” she says. 

“Thanks, Margo.” He’ll have to reassure her, later, that he’ll take care of Eliot. Tell her that he’s been in love with him for ages. Try to explain. But for now, he just pulls her in for a big, warm hug. “Thank you for everything.”

“It was my pleasure,” she whispers, her head on his shoulder. 

Eliot puts his arm around him and kisses him on the temple, and it’s nice to be touching him again. “Hey,” Eliot says, addressing Margo and Jules, “I know you’ve all just begun your coffee, but how about if we make you brunch in a little bit?”

“Yeah, um,” Quentin jumps in, “We were thinking, maybe you two would like to try the special dish?”

***

They collaborate on brunch, with Quentin cutting up fruit for a salad while Eliot performs some kind of alchemical operation that results in world’s fluffiest, creamiest chivey scrambled eggs. He also perfectly times the toasting and buttering of the rest of his beautiful loaf of bread, and the smell of the toast alone sends Quentin into a reverie that brings him nearly to tears in the kitchen. It’s mostly good feelings, good memories—toast is a comfort food, after all—but it’s a lot. He imagines, as he stands at the counter with Eliot’s arms around him while he regains his composure, that this will get easier with time. 

There is just enough of the special dish left for everyone to have some on a small slice of toasted Fillorian bread, and it’s a beautiful feeling, sharing this with Julia and Margo and Eliot, all together. Their friends know a little bit of the history, although it isn’t theirs, and letting them into this feels like inviting them to visit with them in their home: showing them around, saying “look, here is where we’ve lived.” 

They’re finishing up, and beginning to clear the table, when Julia leans lightly into Eliot. “It’s amazing that you can remember these recipes,” she says, “I can’t remember how to make things that I used to cook in college. That’s an awful lot of detail, for something from a different life.”

Eliot looks over at Quentin, asking with a look if it’s okay to talk about this. It is, and at Quentin’s nod, Eliot replies, “Well, everything isn’t quite so specific, but I made these things for years, and they were important to us.” 

“It’s not exactly like regular memories,” Quentin tries to explain, stacking the plates. “They’re always unfolding: new memories and new details. Usually things in our lives will trigger them. Earlier, in the kitchen, I remembered the ungodly huge amount of butter that Ted would try to put on his toast when he was little.” He looks up at everyone from where he’s gathering silverware. Jules and Margo look different levels of surprised and fascinated, but Eliot is looking at him like he’s loved him forever. Quentin feels so warm and secure, under that gaze.

“We were just talking the other night about how we got them back,” he continues. “I mean, we know it was magic, somehow. One of the best things I’ve ever gotten from magic, honestly.” 

Margo and Jules continue to watch them from their seats at the table as Eliot takes the stack of plates and kisses Quentin quickly. “It does seem uncharacteristically generous for an impersonal force that comes from pain, though, doesn’t it?” he asks lightly, carrying the plates to the kitchen.

Julia pipes up, “Not all of it does, though.”

Quentin is staring at her; he hears Eliot set down the plates. For a few moments, everyone is silent, then Margo leans in and levels Julia with a Look.

“Are you talking about divine magic, here? Because we _ know _ that’s different.”

“No,” Julia says, “human magic. All of it can be amplified by pain, but there are other sources.” 

“You’re fucking kidding.” Margo sounds personally offended. Quentin, once again, loves her for how straight-to-the-point she is.

“I’m a knowledge student,” Julia reminds them, as though this isn’t a big deal, “my discipline is meta-composition. I’m pretty sure I know what I’m working with.”

Eliot has returned to the table. He takes Quentin’s hand, and they both slide back into their seats. “Tell us more,” Eliot says. 

Margo cuts in. “Yeah, and why don’t we know this?” Quentin is weirdly reminded of the two of them running a kingdom together.

“Well,” Julia hazards, “maybe because it’s fairly arcane theory, and none of us has even made it to third year yet? And most physical magic _ does _come from pain, anyway. Well, and Q, you’ve never actually had advanced training and theory in your discipline, have you?”

“Julia,” Eliot's grip on Quentin’s hand belies the calm in his voice, “which magic doesn’t come from pain, and where does it come from?”

“Um,” Julia glances around like she’s finally beginning to register that she’s dropping a bomb on her friends, “some categories of nature magic don’t, they come from affinity and devotion; it’s a little esoteric, to be honest. But um…” and now she seems slightly abashed, “the most important exception is mending magic, of all kinds. Major, minor, and all healing. That magic has its origin in love.” 

“You’re kidding,” Quentin says, weakly.

“No.” Julia spreads her hands in front of her in a gesture of apology. “I’m sorry, Q. I thought you knew.” She looks around at all of them. “That’s part of the reason that it’s so tricky for other disciplines to master, because the nature of it is just different, but healers and major and minor menders who have that power innately can do much more with it. It’s rare, but you know. That’s why stories from the ancient world are full of healing miracles.”

Eliot has a very solid grip on Quentin’s hand, and Margo is looking at him like the world’s proudest big sister. “Are you telling me,” Quentin sputters, “all this time, my magic came from _ love?” _

“Well, your innate magic, your mending, yeah. It does, Q.”

Margo takes his other hand. “I’m sorry I misinformed you, honey. I really fucking am.” She turns to Eliot, “Eliot, I am going to have to have another _ word _ with your dean. You might want to stay out of the way.”

Quentin is reeling a little. He knows he could use a few minutes away from the press of voices and words and eye contact to just… begin to process this. He slowly stands up. “That’s okay, Margo. I think I need a few minutes, though, so I’m gonna just…” He points in the direction of the couch. “I’m okay, it’s fine but, ‘scuse me? I’ll just, I’m gonna sit on the couch for a minute.” He puts his hand on Eliot’s shoulder and squeezes it gently, then makes his way to the other room to curl up in the corner of the sectional. Eliot follows him over, wraps a blanket around him and kisses his hair.

“You okay for a minute?” he asks gently, “I’ll be right back?”

Quentin nods, grateful. Moments later he can hear Eliot conferring quietly with Margo and Julia. When he returns he’s alone, and he’s put some [ music ](https://my-dark-happy-place.tumblr.com/post/186075137214/as-it-was-by-hozier-but-youre-sitting-on-your) on. Eliot slides into the spot right next to Quentin and puts an arm around his shoulders, pulls him in to lean against him.

“Might have been nice to have known about this sooner, hmm?”

Quentin chuckles softly. “You think so?”

“Mmm-hm,” Eliot nods, pulling him even closer and wrapping a warm, settling hand around his knee. “I can’t say I’m altogether surprised, though. It does seem fitting.”

Quentin is feeling like he’s been knocked sideways by this revelation, and is a little bit upset that such important information never made its way to him before now, but he knows that being angry about it won’t change anything. As he considers the idea, though, with the solid warmth of Eliot’s touch helping to ground him, things begin to slide into place.

“All this time, I never knew,” he muses. “I thought it came from pain. I can feel it, you know, _ love, _ when I’m doing it? But I thought that was just me—just, like, because I love magic, or sometimes whoever I’m helping, or just that I _ can _ help, or whatever. Just because I’m _ like that_, you know? I thought the love part was incidental.”

“Apparently not, although you certainly are _ like that.” _Eliot’s voice is gently teasing, but he’s smiling at him with incredibly soft eyes.

“You like it, though.”

“I _ love it. _” Eliot turns his head and kisses Quentin on the temple—a soft kiss, but a long one, very tender, and Quentin feels it. He feels Eliot’s regard, his affection, his care. 

A couple of minutes later, when he speaks again, Eliot’s voice is gentle and thoughtful. “When we were talking before, you said you tried to channel a lot of _ love _ into those things, Q. The letter, and the basket of fruit.”

“Yeah. I did.” They should share the blanket again; Quentin wraps it around both of them as he continues. “I figured it couldn’t hurt, and, I mean, I had so much of it. I had all of mine, and I was still carrying around yours, too. It’s not like it diminishes, you know.” 

Eliot swallows and looks at him like he’s a bit stunned. “I don’t suppose it ever occurred to you that everyone doesn’t just ‘channel love into things?’” 

Quentin shakes his head. Why would that occur to him? It felt like the most natural thing in the world, and he’s about to explain to Eliot that when one is inside the thing, one does not often notice the thing, when El says, “If I remember right, you never knew your discipline in that life?”

“No, not academically. But… I did know who I was, and what I was good at.” 

“Waking things up and helping them remember what they were.” Eliot recites it like he’s miles away, in a dream. 

It takes Quentin a few moments before it begins to click.

“Holy fuck.” 

“_Holy Fuck _ ,” Eliot whispers. “That’s… that wasn’t _ minor _, Q.”

“No I… I guess it wasn’t.”

They’re sitting in stunned silence now, holding each other on the couch like they were this morning, but now with this realization unfolding between them, this unlocking mystery. The very idea is electrifying. Had he done that? Had he really… imbued their love, from their lifetime together, as… as a magical force, into those things? 

Quentin wonders, fleetingly before the dazed thought slips away, whether he was using magic to accomplish this miracle, or whether magic was using him… it feels as though it was both, the boundaries between magician and magic moving and blurred. 

He can hardly believe it. He just holds Eliot tight.

Some time later Margo and Jules appear, settling on either side of them and placing mugs of steaming tea on the coffee table in front of them. Quentin leans toward Eliot’s ear. “Just between us, for now?” he whispers. 

Eliot nods minutely and holds him tight around his shoulders, then looks over him to where Margo is waiting.

“So,” she says, with as much preamble as she ever gives anyone, “are we throwing you two a wedding, or what?”

“Yes,” Eliot answers her. He nuzzles the side of Quentin’s hair, a soft smile on his face.

“And when will this be?”

Eliot looks briefly between the two women. “How about two weeks from now? Saturday or Sunday, either would be fine.” 

Under the blanket, Quentin laces their fingers together and holds Eliot’s hand, warm and sure, in his. Anything they create together, it's going to be beautiful.

*_ fin _*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enormous thanks go to adjovi, ilexa, and rizandace for their very, very valuable help with this story and for all of their kindness. Thanks also to lunaraindrop for cheering me on and for the scholarly mummering pufferfish; to Jette for kindly allowing me to link to her edit of Hozier in a rainstorm; and to orchardsinsnow for good advice and for the idea that mending magic comes from love. Of course it does.


End file.
